


Tea pots are sexy too

by myladyclegane



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, My First AO3 Post, No Plot, No Smut, ecessive use of "effort", just too many tea pots laying around, the sex happens but not where we can see it, this went totally off topic/no plot just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24142219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myladyclegane/pseuds/myladyclegane
Summary: my first ever ficlet inspired by a tea pot and a coffee urn. Aziraphale is making tea and it just gets him thinking about his demonic boyfriend having a kip in the newly created bedroom in his bookshop. that's it.no plot and sadly no smut, but enough innuendo for me to perhaps over rate as mature, but better safe than sorry I guess.Tthis is the first thing I have ever, I mean EVER written. I have no betas and its 4am, please be gentle
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	Tea pots are sexy too

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. So I've been a member here for years, but have never contributed. to be blunt I've been disabled and can barely see straight enough to type let alone piece together enough sentient points to string together a cohesive story, but this cameinto my head and wouldn't leave, so here goes. its been about a month since  
> the thwarted apocalypse. our two favorite dorks are pretty much inseparable, but this is book and show compliant, only as far as I'm concerned they have more interactions over the millennial than Messer's Pratchett and Gaiman included in their telling. so shall we?

1.

A gentle mist fell over London, not enough of a rain to require the unfurling of brollys by the practiced few pedestrians braving the slick pavements, but enough to turn up ones collar at the intrusion of damp while grumbling into the night in a way that makes a certain celestial being proud. Or would if said being was even remotely cognizant at the moment. Said entity was safe from tempests no matter how small as he was currently tangled in the soft floral scented sheets in the middle of a plush double bed on the top floor flat of a nondescript antiquarian book shop most assuredly fast asleep.  
The demon Crowley; on (permanent?) hiatus from his 6 millennia plus assignment as Serpent of Eden, Tempter of Man, and sower of Mayhem (or at least minor inconvenience) despite his best effort (inuendo intended) had failed in the only task he had set for himself since the apocalypse that wasn't. Not that he hadn’t literally worn himself out in the endeavor. His target was currently puttering about in his too modern for his tastes (1940's was modern right?) kitchenette attempting to get the kettle on before Crowley woke and began distracting him again. Much to the demons chagrin he had yet to outlast the angel’s indefatigable stamina (hence Crowley's failure since he had made it his mission to libidinize his angel into unconsciousness). Since the post apocalypse reset (someone bless the coda of prepubescent fairness in the world) Crowley had hardly let Aziraphale, former guardian of the Eastern Gate, gastronomic connoisseur, and reluctant book seller out of his sight. 

It had only been a few weeks since their entire world as they knew it had turned in its head. For the better for sure, but a complete 180 degree shift from toeing the company line so to speak. Their clever work around ethereal punishment and subsequent unexpected return to a restored and pristine London had given the pair a chance to reset their arrangement to whatever relationship they choose, not that there had been an actual "moment" of definitive choice so much as a carnival slide from hereditary frenemies to devoted lovers. Like many of their interactions over the millennium, cautious distance and attempted professionalism went right out the window once one had actual need of the other. Dinner at the Ritz to celebrate their hoodwinking and skullduggery (Aziraphale’s terms, fond eyeroll from Crowley) of their respective bosses had bled into drinks on the sofa in the back of the bookshop. Which had led to the angel tucking the much loved (Crowley would never admit it) tartan throw around the shoulders of his, quite honestly, knackered demon. Crowley had worked his way into a familiar serpentine sprawl across the whole of the sofa, one long leg over the arm, the other trailing off under the coffee table. As usual the angel found himself insisting that it was quite alright if he needed a nap and found himself (predictability thy name is Aziraphale) insisting that he stay the night.

"No sense driving at this hour dear boy.", and "Really old chap, I’ll see you in the morning anyway, this is just saving you the trip." was nothing all that new to them with the fear of Heaven and Hell, let alone in that first week post apocalypse that wasn't leaving the pair to stew in a heightened state of worry (dread?) waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop. They had barely ventured out of the snug back of the bookshop together, let alone left each other’s sides. Fear that Heaven or Hell would cotton on to their deception and decidedly not leave them alone as agreed upon was fraying the edges of carefully maintained facades of cool detachment, and anyone whom had spent even passing time in the company of Aziraphale and Crowley would recognize that "cool" or "detached" wasn't in either of their respective wheel houses. Finally, the constant stress had won out and Crowley had Cracked. By the end of the first week it had become by unspoken agreement that Crowley was now a permanent resident in the bookshop. Plants and statuary had begun creeping into the edges and tops of shelves, and a small flat had insinuated itself into the top floor storage complete with aforementioned kitchenette( Aziraphale’s doing) and a sleek modern bath with too many showerheads and miles of black granite ( Crowley loves a good shower nearly as much as a good sleep). They had agreed upon a single bedroom since only Crowley slept, but had included a large closet for Aziraphale to transfer his collection of Victorian great coats and fussy tartan accessories to. Despite the cozy sitting area in the shop below Aziraphale had insisted they include a fireplace (Crowley had fought that one, but lost after a pleading look and jutting lip from the angel), second sitting area and dinette to the open living space as well as an obnoxiously modern television set up. They had found themselves moving to the flat in the evenings and lounging on the new sofa, an almost exact copy of the one below (Aziraphale had outright put his foot down when Crowley had suggested he bring the sofa from his Mayfair flat. Aziraphale had conceded to allowing the ridiculous velvet "throne" of Crowley's to insinuate itself into place beside the fire) and drinking through most of the available catalogue at their favorite Vintner. It was a new, but surprisingly familiar and comforting, arrangement. That night had seen the pair order in a favourite curry and finish off a delightful off-dry Cenin Blanc before burrowing down into the sofa and giggling over the sudden realization that Thaddeus Dowling was still very much in politics and therefore must have had to be a part of the last American Presidents state visit.

" I can NOT think of that man drunk. I'm sobering up" the angel drained the alcohol from his system as he stood  
“Well, I for one cannot think of either of them sober” Crowley reached for the significantly refilled bottle and topped off his glass.  
“Tea dear?” The angel called over his shoulder as he made his way around the sofa and the few steps to the hob. “Nah, I’ll stick with this” the demon replied lifting his glass in a sloppy salute before taking a sip.  
The simple pilot light on the outdated (decidedly modern infernal contraptions, thank you very much dear!) hob had gone out and Aziraphale found himself rummaging for matches. He had just struck one when he found himself unexpectedly bowled over by just over 6 feet of panicked demon (feet, meters, curses upon new fangled metrics. Aziraphale didn’t see why they had to go around changing things every few millennia, unicae had worked just fine for the roman’s and he had fought tooth and nail to be dragged into the English measurement system, it was just too soon to abandon it to this metric tosh) Despite Crowley’s much slighter physique he had terror and surprise on his side as he barreled into the unsuspecting albeit more solid angel while doing his best impression of an American footballer doing “jazz Hands” in a desperate attempt to thwart arson.  
Landing heavily, the breath knocked out of himself and the unsuspecting match, Aziraphale found himself with a lapful of clinging crying decidedly un-demonic Demon. The next several minutes had been spent in replicating the same sort of petting and shushing Aziraphale had observed Nanny Ashteroth employ when young Warlock had needed comforting.  
“Hush Dear boy. All is well, we are safe. Don’t fret, I’m here” Aziraphale murmured into the crown of Crowley’s head alternatingly resting his cheek in the strands of his silky hair and pressing chaste closed mouth kisses to his forehead. Slowly Crowley’s sobs transitioned to shuddering gasps and then into intermittent hiccups and wet sighs.  
“sssorry” he croaked into the warm sweet cage between the angel’s chest arms and chin. “I’m, Ngk, I, I’m sorry, its just the fire. No more fire! My whole world was on fire. The book shop, then the motorway, then the Bentley.” Aziraphale felt a fresh flood of damp against his throat as Crowley stuttered out his voice rising to an anguished pitch “any you, YOU were gone angel” more tears “my whole world, 6,000 years Angel, I’ve always known where to find you, always had a north for my compass, and poof. I lost y-y-you, couldn’t feel you. You’ve no idea”  
“No Darling, no. Dear boy you didn’t.” Aziraphale tightened his grip on the demon and gently lifted his tear streaked face. At some point Crowley had knocked his sunglasses free, and if the digging sensation beneath Aziraphale’s left thigh was any indicator Crowley would be needing a replacement or a miracle to wear them again, but the tiny bite of pain only helped center Aziraphale, bringing focus to his corporation’s senses as it were. Every nerve ending was on alert. He could feel the seams of his waist coat pressed into his sides as it stretched tight with the pull of Crowley’s embrace. He felt the tiny hairs, snow blond and fine, of his forearms rise at the rasp on Crowley’s slinky silver scarf caught between them. And he most definitely felt the effort (pun very much intended) his body was making to respond to the unexpected nearness of so lovely and dear a being. The quiet of the flat lent an intimacy to the moment that was not lost on the angel. Aziraphale attempted to keep the tremor and dare one say lust from his voice as he tried to soothe his dearest……. friend?  
Crowley’s eyes were inhumanly wide, snakes’ pupils blown broad and almost round within the tawny iris, unshed tears turning the surfaces to mirrors reflecting Aziraphale’s tender look. Crowley’s pale skin had gone ruddy and his nose pink. Individually his current look should not have been so attractive, but taken in all together with his shuddering breath and parted wet lips he was captivating to the angel that only ever saw the demon blush in his fanciful daydreams. Aziraphale wrestled his need to comfort and his need to confess. Compromising he did both. Was this the right time for declarations so long overdue? What Crowley needed now was reassurance and comfort. Assurance that they were safe, and together, and that he was……loved, oh how very loved. Aziraphale had spent the roughly 6,000 years since the Garden silently loving the serpent. He had hoped that his unspoken ardor was evident, implied in action, but his own cowardice had caused Crowley more pain over the years than he cared to admit.  
Deep down despite his wishes to the contrary Aziraphale knew he had failed. Though he had never even admitted it to himself he knew he had been regularly rebuking the one being in all of creation he couldn’t live without. Harsh words still stung even if followed by an invitation to dine together. Drunken camaraderie could only sooth so much heartache. Surely Crowley must know, despite the blustering denials, he must know. With an audible swallow Aziraphale took a fortifying breath, no time like the present, blinking his own tears away he murmured “Crowley, it’s over. We are here together, I have you, and I am never letting you go. Its us, our side, really its always been. I’ve just been too much a fool…”  
“Angel” barely a whisper in the hush between moments.  
“Dear Boy, Crowley, …. Love. no one is taking you away from me. I will not abide it.” His final words felt like a benediction as the settled over the room. Crowley’s arms loosened their strangling constriction around Aziraphale’s solid middle and tentatively slithered to the lapels of his waistcoat. With a deepening blush Crowley dropped his eyes, focusing on the topmost button peeking through the vee of worn fabric encircling Aziraphale. In the hundred plus years the angel had worn it, Crowley could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he had laid hands on the velvety material, and none of those times had been like this. He had fisted the front of the angel in anger any number of times over the centuries. Placed a flat hand against the principality’s chest in warning or to stop an altercation, and once in St. James Park nearly used his angel as a ladder to escape a particularly menacing duck that had no concept of personal space. Never in 6000 years had he hesitantly toyed with the angel’s buttons. Not once until now had he tenderly clung to the angel, leaning into his steady warmth. Satan (and a few trustworthy houseplants) only knows how often he has wanted to. Never making an outright declaration left him plausible deniability if the angel ever called him on it, but nearly every action spoke his love for Aziraphale. It was a language of discretion only two beings in all of creation were fluent in, yet still they demurred from action. Crowley knew that Aziraphale Knew.  
Sure that fear of his own feelings and Heavenly retribution was the driving force behind the angel’s casual cruelty; Crowley had kept the tender flame of hope that one day they would be brave alive beneath the fragile cage of his corporation’s chest. Convinced nothing short of the actual apocalypse would loosen the metaphorical stick lodged up the Guardian of the Eastern Gate’s plush angelic bottom. Crowley had six millennium’s worth of experience ignoring his feelings, this unbearable love, this need for the angel; his angel to be out of harm’s way. Lord, sata….Somebody knows Aziraphale has a history of ending up in corporation threatening situations. 600 human lifetimes of gut loosening worry that either Heaven or Hell would separate them had turned the memories of the shop burning, and Aziraphale in Hellfire into his secret Nightmare.  
“Angel?” long moments stretched out between the demon’s tentative question “Do…….you…….know how unbearable….your loss would be…..to me? I can’t” speeding up, gaining conviction as he realized this was the moment “This week, staying here, with …. you, being near, its, Gah! It’s the only thing. you’re the only thing keeping me together right now.”  
Crowley started as the angel’s thick sure fingers brushed his chin, broad thumbs catching his jawline and slowly tilting upwards until their eyes once again met. Aziraphale licked his dry lips. This was his moment for bravery, this that had felt harder than facing Satan himself up until a week ago was suddenly the easiest and most right thing the angel had ever known. clearing the uncertainty from his throat and Straightening up to full height, body still pleasantly entangled in Crowley’s ridiculous limbs Aziraphale let out a last calming breath and brought his lips into tentative contact with Crowley’s.  
As first kisses go, true first ever attempts at romantic buccal contact it was a bit saltier than average allowing for all the crying, but in conveyance of tender affection it was off the charts. Crowley’s slack lower lip closed against Aziraphale’s drawing it into the demon’s warmth. Letting what could only embarrassingly be called a whine Aziraphale surged forth at Crowley’s obvious acceptance, hands sliding from jaw back to grasp the short red hairs at the back of Crowley’s nape desperate longing pouring off his corporation in palpable waves. Crowley struggled to free his trapped hands; hungrily winding one up to pull at Aziraphale’s loose curls, the other sliding south to pull the demon’s body impossibly closer within the cradle of his (HIS! finally) angel’s thighs.  
The next few hours welcomed a number of firsts to the newly realized couple, not limited to Crowley’s first hickey, Aziraphale’s first brush with rugburn (knees), as well as Crowley’s (not his knees), and the first time Crowley’s laughably tight trousers had ever been unceremoniously yanked from his person by an impatient half naked angel. By morning they had (thoroughly) tested the stamina and resilience of their respective corporations and Aziraphale had gained a whole new admiration for the flexibility Crowley’s more serpentine aspects afforded him.  
Declarations made on both sides the two man shaped beings were finally for the first time 100% on the same page as well as the same side.  
2.

It had been nearly a month since that most welcome shift in their relationship. In the count of human years, a month is still a new and tender time in the life of a relationship, for ancient immortals its no more than a single breath, a butterfly’s single wing stroke in the timeline of existence. But for Aziraphale and Crowley the last month had been an eternity of bliss. Having finally crossed that thin boundary into the no man’s land of off limits contact they were relishing the freedom to be honest with their actions. For two hearts held apart for the entirety of humanity’s tenure on the planet the last month had been an unfurling of the longest slow burn in the history of, well history. For beings unbothered by the human minutiae of life there are a lot of moments for quality time in a scant calendar month. 30 days, 720 hours, 43,200 minutes to adore each other, exalt in the uninhibited exploration on love, and oh did they ever! But even occult beings (“really Crowley, I’m not occult!”) have their limits, so now Crowley despite his best efforts to outlast his angel slept for the first time in weeks. As he drifted off in to blissed out unconsciousness Aziraphale climbed on trembling limbs from the tangled nest they had created together. The once severe, very Crowley, bedroom had morphed into a shared soup of hard clean lines and soft provincial warmth. Firm thighs lightly dusted with white blond hairs rested heavily against the edge of the bed as he gingerly pulled a loose pair of pajamas bottoms over his over stimulated flesh. Giving up on his fruitless search for his discarded top (and too worn out to think of miracling it up) Aziraphale stumbled shirtless into the cool kitchenette intent on tea. Weak sunlight filtered through the thin gauzy curtains illuminating dust motes shimmering in the morning sun.  
In the several hundred years Aziraphale had owned the bookshop he had never been so underdressed. Until the recent additions to flat upstairs he hadn’t seen the necessity of not just miracling a quick change of clothes when necessary, in fact up till now he hadn’t been naked since public bathing and gladiatorial competitions had gone out of style. The last month had seen him in unprecedented states of undress all over the bookshop, not that Crowley hadn’t been a complicit accomplice in the deflowering of Aziraphale’s beloved shelves. For the first time since propriety had become fashionable Aziraphale actually felt comfortable enough in his own skin to just let it, as the American’s say, “all hang out”. Years of being belittled by his superiors, outright being told to “loose the gut” by Gabriel, and even his own preference and admiration for the slender lines Crowley possessed had left Aziraphale self-conscious and ashamed of his naked flesh. Having Crowley not only approve, but actually lust and claim to prefer Aziraphale’s solid form had been a welcome and sensual surprise. He had spent days now as an object of worship, having every inch of his body explored in triplicate. Every expanse covered in kisses, spots discovered that make him shiver, time spent in contemplation of which parts of Aziraphale’s tender flesh mark easiest, which ones illicit moans that only Crowley is allowed to hear. Aziraphale was gaining new perspective on beauty in diversity of form, his corporation is golden and gloriously solid. Built to be a warrior, a guardian. He possesses a solid steadiness, velvety flesh softening the lines of solid muscle beneath. Aziraphale’s body was made to cushion the hard lines and sharp angles that made up Crowley. Slotting together like a perfectly cut jigsaw puzzle they even each other out, opposites that perfectly fit. For the first time in a long time his own nudity is un-concerning.  
Standing at the tiny sink, Aziraphale filled the electric kettle (the addition a concession to Crowley’s new distrust of incendiary devices and open flame) and settled it in its cradle to heat, moving to the cupboard to take down a tin of his favourite tea. After a brief rummage he found his favored blend nestled up against the can of Crowley’s preferred bitter coffee. Smiling he retrieved both, deciding to surprise the demon with breakfast in bed. Setting his favourite tea pot out, squat old porcelain with hand painted periwinkles, he filled it to warm and set the kettle to heating again. Lovingly Aziraphale fetched the much newer shiny black coffee urn that had made an appearance about the same time Crowley had started lingering around the shop after drinks. He took a moment to admire the sleek art noveau lines before placing it next to his beloved tea pot.  
The two pieces of pottery sat in stark contrast of one and other. Aziraphale’s short, squat, cream with soft curves and a rounded handle, Crowley’s tall and angular, dark and severe with a nearly mathematical precision to the sharp almost bony handle. Aziraphale could almost envision his demon striking a similar pose, one slender arm cocked on his delightfully thin hip.  
Fondly preparing both pots and arranging a few pastries from their favorite local bakery on a tray Aziraphale let his mind wander. He’d never thought much about china shapes, of all the pageantry that fine dining inspired, he mainly followed the rules of etiquette for the time and enjoyed the contents, but now he wondered how it had come to be that their preferred beverages were served in vessels that so mirrored themselves. Was it coincidence that this like so many other aspects of Crowley and Aziraphale’s shared life was an exercise in contrast? In the corner just outside the door to the bedroom sat a small curio of old china miracled upstairs from the back of the bookshop after the creation of their new flat. Aziraphale was sure now that he thought of it, he had purchased a full compliment of china that matched his precious tea pot, he just tended to use the basics since until a month ago he had had neither a kitchen nor dining table at his disposal. More than likely amongst the gravy boat and asparagus plates he surely had a coffee urn. Curiosity peaked, Aziraphale crossed to the small cabinet. Closer now to the outside wall the gentle cadence of rain drummed against the shop, a soothing melody adding to the peace of an already harmonious domicile.  
Sighing contentedly at the simple domesticity of it all Aziraphale stood on tip toe, muscles flexing and moving beneath his firm skin, the already loose pajama pants sliding south exposing the subtle vee of his pelvis before coming to rest on the applesque swell of his muscular bottom. Arching his back to gain the scant inches in height required to reach is prize tucked into the back of the topmost shelf deepened the dimples in the soft skin of his low back. Fingers finally closing around the spout he dropped onto his heels and directly back into the unexpectedly waiting arms of his demon. Squeaking in surprise the urn dropped from his loosening grip. Wrapping one arm around Aziraphale’s’ middle Crowley reached out with snake like speed and caught the handle of the urn with no more fanfare than the tinkling of disgruntled china. Placing it at his feet, Crowley straightened and wrapped himself snugly around his angel.  
“missed you, lucky I was here to save the day” he smirked before pulling his still startled boyfriend into an enthusiastic kiss.  
Surfacing for a breath his corporation really didn’t need a satisfied smirk settling on his handsome face. “what have we here angel?” his hands ghosted down Aziraphale’s spine to settle on those much-revered dimples. Fingers kneading the swells of Aziraphale’s behind “I do enjoy a bit of mystery, but you my love have entirely too much on.” Slipping his hands beneath the waistband he rolled his very naked hips against his angels terribly tartan ones. With a delighted wiggle Aziraphale swept Crowley up, long slender legs bracketing his broad hips and walked him back to press against the wall stepping over the hastily forgotten crockery.  
Much later two very naked and smitten celestials cuddled beneath a throw on the sofa at the back of the bookshop. Hazy rain creating prisms of dancing light in the overcast afternoon sky, filtered around the overstuffed shelves to gently illuminate the couple. Respective beverages in hand they soaked in the peace of a rare quiet afternoon on the street beyond. Delicately blowing on his cup, Aziraphale giggled as Crowley gulp his coffee and proceeded to gasp and Ngk at the scalding heat. “Dearest, we couldn’t be more different if we tried, I fear”  
“z’all right Angel, who wants to be the same, same’s’ bloody boring that is. Satan forbid if you were any more of a bastard than you already are” Crowley’s grip tightened around Aziraphale’s belly pulling him one handed closer, bringing the angels back to rest against his side. Long slender fingers splayed below the angel’s bellybutton, pinky finger just skimming the dark blond curls he loved so much; He took a more delicate sip of his remaining coffee. “I like us, correction I love us as we are. Took us 6,000 years give or take, but this here Angel, this is perfection. This is my Eden.”  
“I agree dear, this, you, us is just what I always dreamed, it’s better than I dreamed it could be.” Chuckling Crowley teased “really Angel, you always dreamed of degenerate sex with a big bad demon on every surface of your prissy little book shop?” Colouring slightly, but still smug Aziraphale quipped back “why yes my dear demon, did you fail to realize while you were extolling the virtues of cake at the French revolution, I was at Charenton comforting an institutionalized Marquis with a penchant for rather illustrative prose.” That earned an eyebrow raise “really Angel, How far did this comforting go, should I be jealous, and have we covered all the bases then?” swatting ineffectively at the demon behind him “ My Dear, you know now that I have only ever had eyes for you, and crepes. But no, we have barely scratched the surface of what so called degenerate acts are available to humans, they have so much more imagination than Heaven or even Hell, I guess, give them credit for.” Plucking the cup from Aziraphale and setting it aside Crowley nipped gently at the Angels exposed ear and rumbled “Do tell angel, or better yet demonstrate, I could use a little illustrating. Always was more of a hands-on learner.”  
An eternity, or maybe just a blissful hour later, time gets a bit muddy when its measured in orgasms, and a minor miracle to their beverages later the couple was puttering about their kitchenette in a practiced harmony that only couples that have had a lifetime of familiarity attain. Examining the forgotten coffee urn that had been the unwitting catalyst to the wasting of a perfectly good breakfast Crowley asked “Angel where does this bean juice thing go? I don’t remember ever seeing it.” Smiling and taking it gently from his loves grasp, Aziraphale cradled the delicate old pottery. “it really is similar to yours Crowley, not as dark or severe, but still tall and so much more slender than the tea pot. It came with my china set ages ago, may have been during your decade in Salzburg, I never had occasion to use it, just sort of put it aside. it was long forgotten by the time you started coming around regularly for hot beverages.” Aziraphale set his urn down on the slick tabletop next to Crowley’s regular one. I just wanted to compare the shape, wanted to see if this was a common shape, or your personal aesthetic.” Stepping back to admire the similarities despite the vastly different stylistic themes Aziraphale continued “ while I was setting out our things I fancied the tea pot was a bit like me, and the coffee urn like you, our own little porcelain doppelgängers so to speak, it really is quite a coincidence don’t you think?”  
Blushing furiously, Crowley ducked his head in a sheepish gesture Aziraphale knew from experience meant he was guilty of something. Leveling a stern gaze, as stern a gaze a 6,000-year-old nude angel in the seeming body of slightly soft middle-aged bookworm can manifest, at his most definitely hiding something boyfriend. The blush was spreading deliciously lower as all of Crowley’s little nervous tells began to manifest. He began with unintelligible consonants strung together in a uniquely Crowley pattern, his limbs refused to pick a dimension to inhabit, while somehow developing extra joints and swaying with an awkward sensuality that only one particular angel could love. Grabbing the periwinkle urn Crowley spun on one slender heel and raising an eyebrow in unspoken inquiry was wordlessly directed by Aziraphale toward the corner curio. Replacing the urn with an ease his scant two extra inches of height afforded him over Aziraphale, he turned and flashed a falsely innocent smile and piped out with exaggerated cheerfulness” about that Angel, funny thing really, so back” he ran out of breath, inhaled and with an exaggerated eyeroll continued “ I ddon’t know, ack maybe 2700 B.C. who keeps track really, this guy Shen Nong, you met him once I think. Short fellow, amazing mustache, mustache for dayyys. No matter. Anyways old Shen tells me he’s figured out you can drink this leaf soup, and its really catching on, so right, they were looking for a new way to serve it up, not just drop the old pot of leaf water down and be done, and hey perfect spot for a little demonic temptation, throw a spanner in the works so to speak. Someone had said put a little spout on one side, and then they came up with a handle so it was easy to pour, and here I was fresh out of that little thing we got up to in Assyria, and flustered because I thought you were flirty, but then I broke my sandal. I raised my robe to show you, and all you did was Snap” Crowley fitted action to word “and you just miracle it good as new without even ogling my daringly revealed calf and prattling on about those new goat and date shis-ka-thingies at the bazar. And well, I had made a considerable effort, emphasis on the effort Angel” Aziraphale was treated to a saucy eyebrow waggle. “and then off to china I go, missing you in ways I couldn’t even fully fathom yet, and here’s this new food thing that you will probably love and the next thing I know instead of fouling up the function or suggesting inappropriate decorations I go and say “ why don’t you make it round and voluptuous with curves and warmth and it will be so comforting. It just sort of stuck, so for centuries every time I see a god blessed tea pot, I’m looking at a miniature you. I did get them to leave the handles off the cups though, so not a total loss. Got a commendation for all the swearing that’s generated over the centuries.”  
It was the angels turn to blush. “oh, Crowley, that is terribly romantic all these years and I never knew.” Aziraphale reached out to cradle his loves neck with his warm palm. “s’nothing Angel, at the time it just felt sad and empty, like I can hold this little effigy of you, but that’s all I’ll ever have. So, we end up in the 15th century I think, and I’m over in Yemen when some guy starts slinging this hot bean water around, and zing total potential. Potential city. In no time it was my drink, I mean the caffeine, the bite, 100% Crowley approved. So, if tea was you, and now this coffee stuff is me, er, it was just a tiny little influence over a couple of centuries and a few continents and boom, our porcelain avatars are nestled along side each other on serving trays like little crockery Romeos and Juliets.  
The demon shrugs, sending a sinuous ripple through his trim flesh. He looked a little sad, but the slight uptick to the corner of his mouth whispered of hope “I just, I don’t know, longed? Hoped? That one day that would be us. Different, but together, you know in the same place, similar purpose complementing. Tea and coffee, miracles and temptations meant to be together” Crowley suddenly found himself in possession of an overabundance of gloriously warm, slightly blubbering angel.  
“Crowley, its beautiful. Like a 5,000-year long love letter, and I didn’t even know. I mean I always knew you cared, and that eventually we were both in love, but I didn’t realize all this time, both of us, for all this time” The demons voice lowered becoming husky with either emotion or lack of circulation “well, now you do Angel, its you and me, coffee and tea forever, but I hope we end up like Orsino and Viola instead of Romeo and Juliet.”  
Smiling now Aziraphale loosened his grip and brought their mouths together in a sweet but passionate congress of lips and tongue, wet and velvet heat. Grinning himself now Crowley pushed against the firm expanse of Aziraphale’s chest, angling him towards the bedroom, pressing hot kisses against his lover’s jaw reaching the delicate shell of his ear Crowley tugged gently at Aziraphale’s earlobe mouthing breathlessly “Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged. Give me my sin again.”  
Pleasantly flustered Aziraphale drew back pinning Crowley with a delighted by skeptical stare. “you’re using Shakespeare against me? I thought you only liked the funny ones?” angling his angel and pressing him to sit on the edge of the bed Crowley dropped to his knees and splayed his hands across the tops of Aziraphale’s thighs. With the slightest pressure Crowley encouraged Aziraphale’s knees to fall away, carving a perch between his love’s splayed legs. Crowley shot Aziraphale a lopsided grin “prefer, Angel. I prefer the funny ones, old Billy got it right most of the time even when they are abysmally tragic, except for Hamlet. I swear to someone Angel if I hear even one line of that morose atrocity while we are going at it I will cease making an effort!’  
“not a word my dear, I swear it. From my lips to God’s, well…”  
“Best not Angel, lets keep a low profile here”  
Drawing his demon into position to best appreciate the effort (ahem) he was putting into this seduction Aziraphale purred “of course my darling, now foul fiend I believe I need assistance that will require you to put forth an enormous amount of effort if you would be so kind.”  
Well, thought Crowley 42nd times the charm, best get at it. This Angel isn’t going to seduce himself.  
In a moment of ineffable harmony, the sun was just coming up over Soho as Hells least competent demon went down on Heavens biggest disappointment.

**Author's Note:**

> 6 pots of tea, 1 nervous breakdown, and 2 sulking house cats later this is it. I hope y'all enjoyed my modest contribution to my favorite fandom.My kids love Good Omens, so once they realized that I was writing about a conversation we had while comparing our tea pot and coffee urn they have been nosing around, so I kept the smut that wanted to be there out. I have already tossed some Game of Thrones one shots together on my phone, so maybe if I'm feeling particularly brave they will see the light of day, who knows, but there be smut in them there one shots. I love this forum and all of the artists that make our lives more rich and vibrant with their contributions. y'all are my heroes. Thanks for keeping me sane.


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